Sonata for Two: The Sound of Music
by Maxie Kay
Summary: Deeks played the violin - really?
1. Chapter 1

Sonata for Two: The Sound of Music

An NCIS:LA fanfiction

By

Maxie Kay

_A four part story, inspired by the season 3 episode Patriot Acts_

**First Movement: Allegro**

"I grew up playing the violin."

I also grew up not knowing when to keep my big mouth shut. Now, while it's debatable that I ever truly mastered the violin, I still haven't learnt when it's better just to stay silent and say nothing at all. Right now is a case in point. I regret the words the moment I say them, not least because of the interested look on Kensi's face. You see, there's something else about my past you need to know: I don't talk about it. Not ever. Well, generally not the truth, and definitely not the whole truth. There are some things that should stay in the past. So I rush to do some damage control, because I just know that Kensi is going to start asking some questions. Too many awkward questions which I'm not in a mood to answer right now. Time to change tempo here and throw her off the scent.

"I'm not a complete Neanderthal, you know."

I'm careful to say this with a grin, to make a joke of it, just like I always do. Everybody knows I'm always joking, that I've got a quip for all occasions, that I'm rarely serious. And with that statement I make my escape, leaving Kensi in that room with the blinds filtering the sunlight into horizontal stripes, the cello sitting in the corner and the Vivaldi on the music stand. The smell of rosin fills the air, that unforgettable scent of pine sap and beeswax that transports me back to another time and another place, another sunlit room from long ago and the sound of music.

I remember that piece of Vivaldi, remember struggling to play the violin part, working at it for months and I wonder if Mia loves it as much as I do – the complexities that gradually reveal themselves, the subtleties that suddenly emerge with startling clarity, the way your heart suddenly lifts free as the music soars up, freed from its static existence as a series of printed notes upon a page into something with a life of its own, eternal and yet ephemeral. You see, music is a serious thing. I don't joke about music.

Like I said, I grew up playing the violin. Over the years I must have put in hundreds of hours practising until I got to the stage where people's ears didn't start bleeding as I scraped my bow across the strings. Music is a hard taskmaster. You start off with scales – major and minor. And then there are inversions and chromatics, just to complicate matters. A series of variations on a theme, designed to instil muscle memory, so that after a while you can produce a glittering arpeggio, a series of notes that sounds effortless. Which it is – after a few years' worth of practice. At the same time you are learning to read music, that universal language. No matter what language you speak: English, French, Serbo-Croat – musical notation is the same the world over. At first, you look at the notes on the page and then try to work out where they are on the instrument. Your teacher tells you that one day you will just look at the music and your fingers will know where to go automatically. You don't believe her. And then one day it just happens and you realise you are starting to understand this instrument and, more than that, you discover that you are hooked. There is something about making music that is strangely addictive, for it takes you into another world. It's a refuge in a lot of ways.

Of course, it's not cool to play the violin when you're a kid. Especially if you are a boy. You know that as well as I do. The guitar is cool, but the violin is just plain sad. Which is why I always made a point of trying out for every sport I could, even the ones that ran a high risk of physical injury. Hey – breaking a couple of fingers playing football is preferable to having your head kicked in because you're the skinny kid who plays a violin. And then later on, when I got into hockey, my physical safety was virtually reassured. Everybody knows hockey players are a) seriously tough and b) slightly insane. No-one messed with me once I was on the hockey team. And the gloves actually did a pretty decent job of protecting my fingers. Of course, by then everybody had just about forgotten I played the violin and I wasn't exactly about to remind them.

"I never thought you were a Neanderthal. Just not fully housetrained, that's all." Kensi has followed me, just like I knew she would. It was too much to hope she wouldn't follow this up.

"That's good to know. You've been a civilising influence on me. A few more years and I might be able to go out in polite company."

Kensi ignores that witty remark. She's like a dog with a bone – there is no distracting her from the subject of me and my hidden musical talent. "You really play the violin? Seriously?"

"I didn't say that. I said I grew up playing the violin. There's a big difference." And yes, I did play it seriously, if you call playing two hours a day minimum – every single day – seriously. Which I do. That's about as serious as I've ever got about anything. Only it wasn't enough, not if wanted to be really good. Two hours a day was barely scratching the surface.

"How's it different?" Kensi is just not going to let go of this. What is it about the idea of me playing the violin that intrigues her so much? Is it so very hard to believe that I might be vaguely cultured?

"I used to play. I don't any more. Not really."

Yet again I've said too much. She'll want to know more but at the same time she won't get it, not really. I know that, because I know pretty much everything there is to know about Kensi, right down to the number of pairs of she owns. That's because I've spent literally hours looking at her in each one of those jeans and mentally rating them in terms of how long they make her legs look, how tight they are around the butt and the overall wow! factor. Believe me when I tell you that this current pair are right up there at the very top of the list.

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't understand."

And that was the entirely the wrong thing to say. It was probably the worst thing I could possibly have a said when rated on a scale of mildly idiotic to certifiably insane. Telling Kensi that she can't do something or that she wouldn't understand is like lighting the fuse on a string of Chinese crackers. I wait for her to explode, or thump me or even just give me one of her looks. Except Kensi doesn't look pissed or anything like that. She doesn't even smack me upside the head. She just looks – I don't know how she looks, because I've never seen her look like this. Concerned? Intrigued? Kind of sad? All of the above? How can one woman be so many things at the same time? It's like she not just one instrument, she's the whole orchestra. The complete works.

"Why don't you try me? Maybe you could help me to understand?"

That floors me. We don't work like this. Not normally. Usually I flirt with her and Kensi repels my advances with barbed comments. Of course, I only flirt with her because I know it's safe – because I know she's going to push me away. I say 'yes?' and she says 'no' and that's the way things are between us. It's only when things are really bad that we get beyond our normal joking. Like the time when Kensi asked me to look after her mom – because I was the one person she could trust. Of course, at the time Kensi kind of thought she might be about to die, which might have accounted for the sudden letting down of defences. So now maybe I should trust her too? I reckon I owe Kensi that much. It's just that it has become second nature to me, this wall I've erected around myself: the jokes that distract people, deflect attention away and stop anyone finding out about the real me, who once upon a time played the violin, and what's more played it quite well. I've done a good job keeping that secret hidden, because even Kensi found it hard to believe, and she knows me better than anyone. Despite my best efforts I've let Kensi get closer to me than anyone else has done for a very long time. So I relent and give her a brief synopsis.

"I used to play. Classical music mainly. I started when I was seven and I took lessons for years. I got to the stage where I was quite good, but that was a long time ago. I don't have the time anymore."

Music doesn't just happen. Music takes a lot of work and you never stop learning. Every single time you play a piece, you always know it could be that little bit better. And when you play a familiar piece, one that you've known for years, there are times when your fingers are playing almost of their own volition and your mind is freed up, almost as if you are meditating so that you become aware of a deeper reality. It's the hard graft you put in that occasionally flares out into a moment of sheer brilliance that almost brings tears to your eyes as the music just sings out, as clear and fresh and true as the day it was written, sounding out across all the long years. Only I can't say any of that out loud. That sounds pretentious and phoney and nothing like the image of Marty Deeks I like to project. The good old boy who has a joke for everything, who likes surfing, and girls who can pole-dance and mud wrestle, and who was so darn tough he shot his old man when he was all of eleven years old. Let me tell you that my hands shook so much after that little episode that it was nearly six weeks before I could hold the bow properly again.

"Maybe you should make the time?" Kensi suggests.

That's my girl. She has all the best ideas. And she fills a pair of jeans insanely well. "That's an idea."

"And then maybe you could play for me?"

I'm not so sure about that. It strikes me that might be taking things a bit too far. "We'll see."

When was the last time I played for anyone other than myself? I can tell the exact date, time and place. It's not like you can ever forget something like that. I grew up playing the violin, you see – I started playing when I was a little kid and I continued all the way through school, in between all the sports and fooling around. But the last time I played in public was the day I had to grow up for good and officially leave my childhood behind. That was the day when I didn't need to say anything at all: I just let the music speak for me, because I knew I would never be able to find the right words. I wasn't even sure I'd be able to say a word, unlikely as that might sound, but I knew I could play and that the music would come straight from my heart.


	2. Second Movement: Adagio

_Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews- I'm completely blown away by them.  
In answer to your questions about music, yes I am a classically trained pianist, and still play for enjoyment. Whether the neighbours enjoy the results is debateable. But music has always been a big part of my life._

_And now for Kensi's take on things..._

* * *

**Second Movement: Adagio**

"I grew up playing the violin," Deeks says, and suddenly it all makes sense. One of the first things I noticed about Deeks was his hands – these incredible mobile hands, with long, sensitive fingers. You look at Deeks, with his long shaggy hair and think 'surfer' and then you see those hands and you think 'surgeon'. Or violinist, as it turns out. I want to say something, only I'm not sure what I can say. Deeks never gives anything away about his childhood or his family, you see, not unless it is carefully designed to be humorous. It's reached the stage where he even makes joking remarks about his father to me and I laugh, because he's a genuinely funny guy.

Deeks doesn't know that I was there at the hospital the night Hetty broke the news that Gordon John Brandel had died years ago. Deeks wasn't laughing then, but of course he was sick and in pain and all his defences were down. I stood just outside the doorway, carefully positioned out of his sightline, and as I watched, he began to cry. I watched my partner lying there in that hospital bed, his head leaning back on the pillow, eyes tight shut as he held onto the file folder like he would never let it go. I've never felt quite so helpless in my whole life. I wanted to comfort Deeks, I wanted so very much to go in there and just take him in my arms – but I didn't. Because I know Deeks too well. The last thing Deeks would want is for someone – anyone – to see him like that. So he lay there, silently weeping for a father he had neither seen nor heard from since he was eleven, a man who was long dead, and I stood outside and wept for Deeks. Some injuries are not just physical: they scar you mentally too.

"I'm not a complete Neanderthal, you know." The smile on Deeks' face goes nowhere near his eyes. It's a hollow mockery of his normal smile and I can sense that he is hurting.

"I know."

Again, I want to say something; to tell him that I don't think Deeks is uncivilised, that I've never thought that, because he is so damned smart it sometimes takes my breath away. It makes perfect sense that he plays the violin. I just wonder why he had to hide it, that's all. But it's too late, he's already left the room, walking out with his posture just a little to upright for comfort, which is his standard defensive position. I know too much about my partner, you see. I know all these things about him that he thinks he's managed to hide away. He can't hide anything from me, because I won't let him. For some reason, I find Detective Marty Deeks strangely fascinating. It's not like I'm obsessed with him, or that I'm about to start stalking him, it's just that some days I find myself walking down a street and seeing the tall guy with fair hair in the distance, and I find myself smiling involuntarily, at the thought it might be Deeks and I walk just that little bit faster to catch up with him, only to find myself confronting this total stranger. Or sometimes I'll be watching TV or talking to a friend and something will come up and I'll think 'I must tell Deeks that'. There are a thousand times when I have found myself thinking about Deeks and all that he is and all that he means to me.

I have never told Deeks any of this and I never will. I can't let him so how much I care about him, because that would be giving the game away, the game we play so carefully. We both know the unwritten rules of our game, and it is as carefully choreographed as any ballet. We are both so very deliberate in the boundaries we have delineated, and on the rare occasions these are breached, it's awkward-almost as if the key has changed from major to minor, so that while the song remains the same, everything else has subtly altered. It is the same tune, and yet it is completely different. Today is one of these days. It's like standing on a raked stage for the first time in your life, and feeling unbalanced and suddenly vulnerable because the world has suddenly changed perspective, the familiar has become strange.

So Deeks plays the violin? Wow, that's interesting and yet it makes perfect sense at the same time. I always knew there was more to him than he lets on, that there are parts of his life he keeps hidden away. The clues are all there, after all: the law degree; those Japanese phrases he just throws casually into conversation; the dysfunctional childhood he steadfastly refuses to talk about. Only that one doesn't quite square, does it? The idea of a young kid playing the violin while all hell breaks loose around him at home just seems too far-out, even for Deeks. But I push that out of my mind, because I'm too busy thinking about the man I know, and trying to imagine him playing the violin. This picture comes into my mind of Deeks standing in his apartment, staring out of the window at the ocean as he plays his violin, bright gold head bent down in concentration, and those fingers creating music, sweet, sweet music. That image nearly takes my breath away.

According to my mother, I loved music right from the start. When I was a baby I would dance in her arms whenever the radio was playing, and then she would start dancing too, and we'd just dance around the living room together until she was so giddy that she would just collapse onto the sofa and we'd lie there, consumed with laughter. It would be nice to remember those times, the good times before life got so complicated, but I repressed my memories of her for a long time and now I'm struggling to recall them. I'm also struggling to rebuild my relationship with my Mom, because I spent half my life without her, so it's hard work, but we both want to try and save whatever there still is between us. I might have thought I hated her for a long time, but I never stopped loving her-not really. I don't want to mess up again like that, not with Deeks. I don't want to leave things like this, because I'm frightened that if I do, our relationship might be fractured beyond repair. I got lucky with Mom, but I'm not about to push my luck twice. I am not about to gamble my relationship with Deeks.

Relationship – did I really say that? It was a slip of the tongue. We're partners, but we don't really have a relationship, do we? We have a 'thing' instead. If I could only work out if that is _something_, or _nothing_, then my life would be so much easier. There was a time when I nearly told Deeks how I felt about him, but that was last year, and we've avoided the subject ever since. I guess that we are what we are. Which is confusing, no doubt about it. He's Deeks: the only man I've let get close to me in a very long time. The man who literally pulled me out of an exploding building and held me so close I felt our bodies could just melt into each other. He's the one man I trusted to look after my mom. He's something alright. I've got this feeling that he might just be everything to me – if we ever get around to really talking about how we feel.

Clearly, playing the violin is important to Deeks, really important and that means he is going to talk about it, because I think he needs to. Today I've seen this tiny chink in the dark vacuum my partner has created around his early life, and he's going to let me in, whether he wants to or not. Eventually, after a lot of persuasion, I manage to wheedle a few facts out of Deeks. It's like coaxing a hermit crab out of its shell, which is strange, as I normally can't get him to shut up. This morning I took Callen's advice and gave Deeks a good smack on the back of the head, in the manner of the infamous Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and maybe it actually knocked some sense into him, because reluctantly Deeks gives me the bare facts.

"I used to play. Classical music mainly. I started when I was seven and I took lessons for years. I got to the stage where I was quite good, but that was a long time ago. I don't have the time anymore."

And he sounds so sad about that. Like a part of him is missing. I want to tell him that he should definitely start to play again, that there is nothing quite as sexy as a handsome man coaxing music out of thin air, but I don't, of course. I just offer a suggestion, in a casual manner.

"Maybe you should make the time?"

It would be a tragedy to throw away all those years of studying and practising. Deeks hasn't given much away, but I get the impression he was more than 'quite good'. I know from personal experience just how much you have to practice. You see, I love music, although I can't play a single instrument. My talent was dancing, and it's still my refuge, my way of letting go. It's like a safety valve that releases all the pent-up tensions this job induces.

I was the quintessential tom-boy, tagging around after my dad and I think my mom must have despaired of ever getting me into a dress. I wonder now if she was maybe a bit jealous about how close dad and I were? The dancing lessons were her idea, and I loved them, right from the start. In the dance studio I was a different person and I learned to be endlessly patient, to never be satisfied with 'good enough'. Oh no - I had to be perfect. So I spend hours doing plies and jettes and stretching my body so that pain became an old friend. I learnt how to accept criticism without flinching and I put up with the pain because when I was dancing, nothing else mattered. I could escape into another world and forget about all my sorrow. I know about the discipline and the dedication, about keeping going when your body is begging you to stop. I know what it feels like when all the hours of practice come together in one brief moment of supreme triumph, when you transcend above the earthly bounds to hang floating in the air, defying gravity. I've felt that dizzy exultation from a perfectly executed series of _fouettes en tournant_ and I know what it is like to hear the rapturous applause of an audience. The fact that my audience comprised mainly of Marine families and my moment of glory was usually in some draughty hall on a Marine base is irrelevant.

By the time I was fourteen, I was already too tall for ballet. I wasn't exactly heart-broken about that, because ballet reminded me of my mom, and by that stage I was nursing this huge grudge against her. So I stopped my formal training and swapped my pointe shoes for a pair of army boots and started hanging out with my dad, going hunting and camping instead of holding onto a barre and staring into a mirror, wondering if I would ever be good enough, and knowing deep down that the answer was 'no'. In the end it was easier to give up ballet than actively face failure and my height was a convenient excuse to hang it on. I've never been good at accepting the fact that I cannot excel at everything. Those years weren't wasted though, far from it. When I start to dance in a nightclub, I know that people watch me with a fair bit of envy, and once again I feel that rush every performer gets, that immediate feedback from an audience. Ballet is great training: it makes you physically strong, you develop an inner toughness through endlessly comparing yourself against almost impossible ideals and it gives you a deep appreciation of the essential beauty of the human of the human body and what it can achieve through sheer slog.

"That's an idea."

Could Deeks sound any more reluctant to embrace my suggestion? The look on his face when he says that is so similar to the look on Monty's face when you say 'bath' that under other circumstances I would laugh out loud. Only I don't. For the very good reason that I can see this matters to Deeks. It really matters and that means that it matters to me too.

"And then maybe you could play for me?" I don't care how reluctant Deeks is, I really want to hear him play the violin and see if he looks anything like the picture I have in my head. But mainly I want Deeks to play again, because I think he needs to. If I understand him at all, then I think there is a void in his life that only music can fill.

"We'll see."

"Is that a 'yes', a 'no' or a 'maybe'?" I am not letting him wriggle out of this.

"Would you settle for a definite 'maybe'?" Deeks knows how persistent I can be and I can sense his resistance is weakening.

"If that's as good as it gets right now, then I guess I will. I'll give you a rain-check –but just so you can practise. One week from today." I'm throwing down the gauntlet here and we both know it. I am issuing Deeks with a challenge he'll find hard to resist.

"Aw, come on Kensi-that's not fair."

"Life's not fair, Deeks." And he's not protesting too much. I think that secretly he really wants to pick up that violin again. Which reminds me. "You do still have a violin, don't you?"

"Of course I do." He says that automatically, as if it is nonsense to even suggest otherwise. Which just goes to prove how important it actually is to him. I still have a pair of pointe shoes, right at the back of my closet - just because. There are parts of your past you simply cannot let go of, after all.

"Then we'd better get this case wrapped up, so you can go home and start practising. You want to stop and get some dubbin on the way back to the Mission?"

"That's rosin, Kensi. Dubbin's what you use on army boots. You put rosin on your bow."

"Of course you do. I knew that." Of course I know that. How many times did I rub my ballet shoes into powdered rosin? Too many to count. The moment I walked into Mia's apartment I smelt the rosin and the memories came flooding back.

"It's just that it's been a long time since I played for anyone. A really long time." The shields fall down from his face and the anguish is there, clear and naked, just staring out at me and I think back to watching him in that hospital room, unable to hide his emotions.

"How long?"

Deeks shrugs and refuses to meet my eyes as he begins to speak in disjointed sentences. "Since my mother's funeral? I couldn't make a speech. Wouldn't have known where to begin. But I wanted to do something for her. Kind of like it was the last thing I could do for her, you know? My way of saying goodbye."

"I know." I know exactly what he means. Except that I didn't have the courage to do or say anything at my Dad's funeral, except sit in the front pew and concentrate on not falling apart into a million tiny pieces. "So what did you play?" I take hold of both of Deeks' hands in look up into his eyes, desperately trying to make him realise that this is okay, he is safe with me. I don't think he's ever spoken about this before, not to anybody. I didn't even know his mother was dead until right now. Deeks and his secrets…

"The Londonderry Air - Danny Boy?"

"That's beautiful." And I can see it so clearly: Deeks standing in the chancel of a church wearing a dark suit, his golden head bent to one side as he concentrates on playing for his mom one last time; standing before her coffin and playing his heart out for her. Now, that takes guts. Once again, I find myself wanting to weep for the man and all he holds so tightly bottled up inside himself.

"It was her favourite song." He's holding onto my fingers so tightly, like he's afraid to let go and we just stand there for the longest time. I don't want to let go either.

"You don't have to play for me, Deeks. Not if you don't want to."

"Who said I didn't want to?" His eyes are sparkling, but the light inside Mia's apartment is kind of dim, so it could just be the familiar glint of teasing I'm seeing, nothing more. Only I don't think so. "I just don't want to disappoint you, that's all," he says.

"Don't worry about that. You're never going to disappoint me Deeks. You never have and you never will. Not ever."

And then I leave the apartment quickly, before I say something I'm going to regret, before I do something that pushes us both down that path we've been avoiding for so long, right since that stilted conversation we had in the bullpen when I thought he was leaving NCIS for good. I nearly ruined everything back there-and I'm not going to take that chance ever again. We are what we are, you see. Am I completely mad to hope that what will be, will be and that it will be good? Or am I just fooling myself?


	3. Third Movement: Scherzo and Trio

_We're back to hearing from Deeks again in the first part of this third installment. It's actually divided into two parts: scherzo and trio. And in the second part, our dynamic duo receive the assistance of a third party. Any guesses as to who that might be?_

_Many thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing - you really make my day._

* * *

**Third movement: Scherzo**

I don't know how she does it, and that's the truth. Somehow Kensi just has the knack of stripping me right back to basics and I find myself telling her things I'd vowed to keep hidden away. Take this whole business of the violin playing. And then there is the small matter of my family...

There's a good reason I don't talk about my past: that's because I'm trying to forget it. Everything I've done in my adult life has been a conscious effort to move away from the past and to define myself by what I actually do, rather than allow myself to be ruled by a long series of random events I had no control over. Those days are past now and they are damned well going to stay in the past if I have anything to say about it. That was then and this is now. And right now, Kensi is holding onto my hands and she is looking up into my eyes.. and this is exactly the situation I've been trying to avoid with her. It would be so easy to kiss her. I've been wanting to kiss her for so long and I don't know how much longer I can keep up this pretence.

Kensi-my best friend, my partner- the woman I trust with my life – is making me think about all the things I've been trying to deny for so long. And first and foremost amongst those is the fact that we both know there is something that underlies our relationship, something that is much deeper than is entirely comfortable for either of us. Which is why we try to deny it as hard as we can. And the more we deny it, the more it resounds inside me. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep on pretending that there is nothing between us. I'm not even sure that I want to keep pretending any longer.

Over time, our partnership has evolved into a shorthand. I say something outrageous and Kensi bats it right back at me. Our sparring is mostly verbal, although there have been a couple of physical altercations. One time she actually zapped me with a tazer; later she got me into a finger lock and darned near pulled it right out of the joint. And once we flew out of a building together as I held onto Kensi just as hard as I could, and after we landed on the ground, I kept right on holding her, so that we lay there on the ground, scarcely daring to believe we were alive, with her staring into my eyes like I was her salvation. For a moment, I thought we were going to kiss…

"You don't have to play for me, Deeks. Not if you don't want to." Kensi's voice breaks into my thoughts, pulling me back to reality.

What am I afraid of? There is a myriad of answers to that question, and they are all questions I have asked myself endlessly, without ever finding a satisfactory answer. The crux of the matter is this: if I let Kensi see the real me, will she recoil and will I finally lose all hope that one day we might just be something more than partners? And if I do finally say something, what if I've got this all wrong and she's not interested- where do we go from there? Aye, there's the rub, as Hamlet so rightly said. But there is something about the way Kensi is looking at me, something in the way she says those words that gives me hope and encourages e to take that leap of faith.

"Who said I didn't want to? I just don't want to disappoint you, that's all." I am not talking about playing the violin.

Kensi understands. "Don't worry about that. You're never going to disappoint me Deeks. You never have and you never will. Not ever."

That's all the affirmation I need. She gave me a chance once before, and I blew it. Months ago, Kensi challenged me to finally say what we've both been hiding for so long, and I pushed her away, because she didn't know the whole truth and I couldn't let her go any further. That would have ruined any chance we might ever have of making something of this elaborate dance. I couldn't risk that, because I might have lost Kensi completely. And that is one gamble I'm not prepared to take, not now and not ever. But this is different.

She gives me strength, she gives me hope. She makes me think that maybe I can trust her completely, body and soul. It's going to take a lot of work, but she's worth it. Kensi is worth blood, sweat, toil and tears, because she is the one who makes this whole crazy world make sense.

* * *

For once it is still daylight when I get home and that spurs me into action. If I am going to play for Kensi, then I want to play properly, and that is going to take a lot of work. I go straight to the hall closet and there, right at the back and hidden behind a cunningly-placed surfboard, is my trio of guilty secrets: a violin case, a music stand and a music portfolio crammed with sheet music. I haul them all out, sit down on the floor and open the violin case. Every time I take out my violin, it's like opening Pandora's box and the memories coming spilling out, filling my brain.

The instrument feels good in my hands as I go through the process of tuning it. The wood is smooth and warm, the sensation of the strings under my fingertips is so familiar that it is like meeting an old friend, one you've not seen for years, but in that instant when you meet again the past just flies into oblivion and everything is once more as it was then, long years ago. I'm the kid who grew up playing the violin, who literally grew up as the music unfolded around me and wove me into its intoxicating spell. I'm the young man who became an adult as I played at my mother's funeral, heart in my mouth as the plaintive notes soared up high into the space that surrounded me. I am the walking wounded, newly out of hospital and playing one last time for a father who had been dead for over ten years. I am all of these versions of myself at once as I hold my violin, the instrument that has remained the one constant throughout. And now I am the man who thinks this violin might be the one chance he has of finally getting through all the barriers Kensi and I have erected around ourselves.

When you first begin to play a new piece of music, you are finding your feet – or rather finding the notes. The first few times are a rough draft, as you concentrate on the mechanics of playing, the broad themes of the piece. You are doing no more than scratching at the surface, laying down a foundation to build upon. And then begins the hard work, as the subtle nuances reveal themselves: the exact length of each note, the different techniques you need to use, the shades of tone you must create if the music is to mean anything. Technique is everything. It's not what you do, but how you do it. The ultimate aim is to make the violin sing and to evoke a series of emotions in the listener. The music on the page is static, but once you begin to translate that music into being it literally springs into life. Anyone can learn to play an instrument reasonably competently, but the challenge arises when you start to add in emotions. It's not easy to lay your heart bare and allow the violin to become your voice, to say all the things you can't express in words. That's what scares me about playing for Kensi, because she knows me so well. Too well, perhaps.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm talking about words when I need to concentrate on the individual letters. Right now I need to warm up, so I stand up and walk into the living-room, positioning myself so that I am staring out at the ocean and I begin to play scales and exercises as outside the sky turns gold and pink and the sun begins to sink majestically downwards. The notes are hesitant at first, and my fingers feel clumsy, but gradually I stop thinking consciously about what I am doing and first of all my accuracy returns, and then the rhythm improves and, little by little the old fluidity begins to assert itself. The trick is to not to think too much, to let your memory take over and yet, at the same time, to make constant adjustments, always striving after perfection as you work on achieving the balance of tone and colour. That's easier than it sounds. Believe me, it is not easy at all.

This is going to take a lot of work. I know that. Most weeks, I'm lucky if I practice for a couple of hours, which is just enough to keep my fingers strong and flexible and my sight-reading up to scratch. And now I have exactly one week in which to prepare a piece and not make a complete fool of myself. I hunt through my music and discard half a dozen options as being too complex and demanding before finding something I might just manage to play half-decently. Except that won't be good enough. Not for Kensi. She deserves the very best. And then I find the perfect piece. One I've played since I was fourteen and which is engrained into my memory. The only trouble is that I haven't played it properly for years

The light is golden now as I start to play, slowly at first, concentrating on making the violin sing out, so that the poignant melancholy fills the room and once again my heart rises along with the notes. There's a fine balance to be drawn here, the inevitable tension between concentrating on playing accurately and yet still allowing the soul of the music to sound out so that it creates a corresponding echo in the listeners. It has to sound spontaneous, not laboured or forced. That's what I'm fighting against here - the complexity of the piece versus the contrary demand that it sounds effortless, like it has just sprung out of nothingness fully-formed, so that nothing detracts from the beauty of the music.

Gradually, over time I start to remember how to play this properly and for one brief instant my fingers take on a life of their own. It's a section I can remember practising endlessly: just a few bars I would play over and over again, always striving for that elusive perfection. And tonight, I achieve that. I watch in wonder as my fingers seem to play the music of their own volition and my ears rejoice. Of course, it all falls apart the moment my conscious brain works out what is happening. But for one brief instant it was perfect. So maybe I can do this after all? Perhaps I've still got what it takes?

Spurred on, I go right back to the start of the piece and start playing it one more time, letting my mind float free as the music takes over. And after a while I reach that state where unbidden thoughts start to appear of their own will, while the music continues unimpeded. Half my mind is concentrating on the music and the other half is thinking of Kensi. It is dark outside now, for time has slipped past without me realising and as I look up, it is not my own reflection I see in the window, but Kensi's face staring right back at me. And she is smiling.

One last time. My back is starting to ache from standing for so long in one position, my hands are feeling the strain and there is a huge knot of muscles in my neck. I straighten up and force myself to relax first of all, and then reach upwards, feeling my spine crack as the vertebrae slide back into alignment. And then I tuck the violin back underneath my chin, pick up the bow and begin to play one last time before I finally call it a night.

* * *

**Third movement: Trio**

I took this job because I felt I could make a difference. Over the course of my long and varied career I've had many challenges, but none quite as complex or intriguing as the problem facing me today. And although there are many who promulgate the myth that Henrietta Lang is invincible, all-powerful and all-seeing, I have never subscribed to that belief myself, no matter much I might encourage its dissemination among the ranks. Instilling a little healthy fear can save you so much time and effort in the long run and now I am approaching the twilight of my working life I will take every advantage I can get. Life has become so much more complex in recent years and sometimes I long for the good old days when things seemed a lot simpler, although they were every bit as deadly.

Running a division of NCIS as complex as OSP is a demanding business, and one that sometimes taxes me to my core. It is not just a matter of the cases we are given, but rather that I must also be aware of the people who carry out the investigations: their strengths and their weaknesses; their wants and their needs. There are days when all the conflicting demands of my job leave me feeling like the conductor of an orchestra, tasked with bringing all the different instruments into a harmonious whole. Sometimes I succeed, and at other times I feel as if I am floundering in an abyss of dissonance. One of my over-arching concerns is to make sure my team can operate as effectively as possible, and that means keeping a keen eye on all of them to ensure each one is playing his or her part. And today my eyes are focused on the younger team members.

Kensi Blye is one of the most driven agents it has ever been my pleasure to work with. She has a glittering future ahead of her, of that I have no doubt. But when I first took over from Lara Macy, I immediately felt that Ms Blye was being overshadowed and not allowed to develop as she should. Part of the problem was her partner, a young man called Dominic Vail. A nice enough young man, but it was always a mystery to me as to why he had been chosen for OSP. He lacked the flair, the experience – quite simply he had no élan. And he was tying his partner down. I was already searching for a replacement, when events took an unexpected turn, and Mr Vail was kidnapped. He never returned to us. That left a gap in my team and I began a long and intensive search for exactly the right person who would allow MS Blye to achieve her full potential, in addition to augmenting the whole team with new skills and approaches.

One of the advantages of my long career is the number of contacts I have established in various agencies and organisations across the world. I won't bore you with the story of how Marty Deeks was brought to my attention, suffice it to say that he was, and that I liked what I saw. And then fate danced him into my hands, when an NCIS operation crossed paths with one run by LAPD. Once that was over, quite simply I made Detective Deeks an offer he could not refuse.

I knew, you see. I knew the moment I saw him and Ms Blye together that they would be an extraordinary team. The _ne plus ultra_ of teams. On paper, they were polar opposites. They were yin and yang, and yet they complemented one another perfectly. Dark and light, male and female – they clicked together like two interlocking pieces of a puzzle, just as I knew they would. They were perfect for one another. There was just one thing I had not allowed for, and for that I can only blame myself and acknowledge that I must be starting to slip up in my old age. Not for one single instant had I reckoned on the sexual attraction that blossomed between Kensi and Deeks. There are times when it simply sparks out, arcing across the distance between them like a bolt of electricity. The only problem is that they are both stubbornly in denial about that fact, and that makes me concerned.

I've tried my best, in a variety of subtle ways, to get them to acknowledge their feelings for one another. Once, I even went to the rather extreme length of making them dance together, knowing full well how talented a dancer Ms Blye is. It was a Viennese waltz, the epitome of romance – how could they possibly resist such a golden opportunity? Although perhaps, in retrospect, it would have been better to have given them brief instructions and then left them in private, taking Mr Callen and Mr Hanna with me. Ah well, one lives and one learns. The question is: when will they ever learn that there are some things that are simply inevitable and that resistance is futile? If ever I have seen a couple who are more perfectly suited or who have a stronger attraction to one another, then I have forgotten who they are. And I am not senile yet. Not by a long way.

There are times when I honestly want to knock their heads together, even if I have to stand on a chair to do that. Today is one of these days. In fact, today is the day. Enough is enough. I am fed up to my back teeth with two. It's time for some action.

"Ms Blye? Mr Deeks?" Their heads jolt up in unison. "A word in my office, if you please."

I ignore the looks that are frantically semaphored between them, and march off briskly, in the sure and certain knowledge they will follow me. Instilling a healthy fear in all my agents has proven to be a decided blessing at times like these, because they trot along in my wake like two puppies expecting a scolding. It is really rather endearing, although I am careful not to reveal that.

"Sit down." I then sit back in my own chair and say nothing. A useful technique, I've found.

"Did we do something?" Kensi asks, fidgeting nervously and, I cannot help noticing, she is deliberately avoiding looking at her partner.

"I don't know, Ms Blye. Why don't you tell me? Did you do something? Did Mr Deeks do something?"

And if neither of you did anything – then why the hell not? What are you waiting for: victory? Well, read my lips: that ain't gonna happen unless you make it happen. Sometimes you just have to tell it like it is. Unfortunately for me, this is neither the time or the place to say these things, no matter how much I want to.

"Like what?" Deeks says, with an injured air.

I am not fooled by that innocent look Marty Deeks throws at me, combined with a good deal of beguiling charm. I am completely immune to his charm. Almost completely immune. Alright, I will admit to a certain reluctant admiration of the way he can use that combination of wide innocent eyes and wholesome good looks. The boyishly dishevelled hair doesn't hurt either. But I steel my soul.

"Do I have to repeat myself: why don't you tell me?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

He refuses to meet my eyes and that is when I know he is prevaricating. That sounds so much better than 'lying', don't you think? Mere semantics perhaps, but justified under the circumstances. These are my agents, they are what they are and what they are is, in large part, down to me. I am partly responsible for this situation and therefore I am determined to resolve it. I owe them that much. So I will overlook the fact that Deeks is being economical with the actualitié just this once. But woe betide him if there is ever a repetition.

"Mr Deeks: you look like hell. You have dark circles under your eyes, you keep massaging your hands as if they ache and as I haven't seen any trails of sand around the Mission for three days, I'm guessing you aren't even surfing any more." That is what they call 'giving it to him with both barrels', I do believe.

Kensi sits upright in her chair and gives him a guilty look. "It's probably my fault," she says in an undertone.

"It's not your fault." Deeks leans forward. "I'm just doing something, on my own time. Something I should have done a long time ago. You don't need to worry, Hetty – it's all good."

"You don't need to do this, Deeks." As I watch, Kensi reaches across and lays her hand on his arm. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say. A remarkably perceptive young woman Alice, I've often thought.

"I do. I need to do this for you and for me." He sounds resolute.

"You're sure?" She sounds worried.

"I'm certain."

And I have absolutely no idea what they are talking about. But for once, that isn't important. "I can trust you, can't I? I do not want to find out I have bought a pig in a poke."

"You can trust us, Hetty." They sit there and look at me imploringly.

So what choice do I have? They are adults, even if they can be remarkable obtuse at times and despite the fact they are sitting here in front of me looking like two guilty schoolchildren. This might be the best chance to date of things finally reaching a mutually agreeable conclusion. But I am sure of one thing: if things do not resolve themselves sooner rather than later I may have no option but to lock them both in a room and throw away the key until they come to their senses. I just hope that if it comes to that they will both enjoy the experience.

You may be tempted to draw a conclusion from all this: namely that I am an incorrigible romantic. And while you may well think that, I could not possibly comment.

* * *

_I couldn't resist bringing Hetty in to this, not only for the third point of view, but also because I just adore writing Hetty! It is so easy to picure the wonderful Linda Hunt in my mind as I write, and to imagine her saying these things._


	4. Fourth Movement: Rondo

_So many thanks to everyone who has left such incredible reviews: I can hadly believe all the wonderful compliments you've paid me. Also thanks to everyone who has added this as a favourite story._

_Sadly, this was only ever going to be a four chapter story, so I hope you enjoy the ending_

* * *

**Fourth Movement: Rondo**

After that conversation with Hetty, I've been keeping an eye on Deeks. She was right, you see: he does look like hell. He also looks as sexy as hell, with shadowed eyes adding to his disingenuous charms, but it doesn't stop me worrying about him, and wondering if I've pushed him into this and that it's too much too soon. After five days, I've had enough.

"How about we stop this? It's not worth it."

"It might not be worth it yet, but it will be. I promise you." He tries to make a joke of it, but it doesn't work, mainly because he's too tired to make much of an effort. Deeks is normally a ball of energy, he can scarcely sit still at the best of times, but right now he looks too tired to do anything much more than function at the most basic level. By the end of the day, it's as much as he can do just to keep his eyes open.

"Deeks – I'm serious."

Typically, he shakes off my concern, which is why I know something is wrong. When Deeks has a minor ailment, everybody knows about it. But when he's really bothered about something, he internalises it. Or does something completely crazy like hauling himself halfway across a hospital and splitting all his stitches open and puncturing a lung in the process, just to save my sorry ass. I still wake up in the middle of the night, consumed with guilt about that. It was my fault, you see, because I wouldn't listen to him. It was because of me he got shot in the first place and it was my fault he nearly died saving me. I'm not going to be the cause of any more injuries to my partner. Deeks might not be talking right now, but I can see the damage this is doing to him and I want it to stop.

"I'm serious too, Kensi. Completely serious. I told you-if I'm going to play for you, I'm going to do it properly. On my terms. And that means practising."

"But you don't have to do this." This is as close as I've ever got to pleading with my partner, if you exclude that time at the hospital, when I held him in arms and begged him not to die on me. There was just so much blood, you see, and he looked so pale and fragile. If I am honest with myself, Deeks doesn't look a whole lot better right now and I feel so guilty I could almost be sick.

He shakes his head and I can see the changes that just five days have brought about, because there's a fine drawn look to his face. "I do. Seriously, I do. You made me realise just how much I need to this."

"It doesn't matter – not really."

"Oh, but it does. It matters to me." He raises his left eyebrow in that way he has, and then walks away, leaving me standing there wondering how this all went so wrong.

I want to tell him to stop being so stubborn, and just to listen to me, but I know it would be futile. Once Deeks has made up his mind, that's it: there is no going back. That's something I can relate to, having spent just about every free weekend over a period of several years and almost all my disposable income in an attempt to find the person responsible for my father's death. During that time, I had one aim in mind: revenge. I would find whoever had killed my father and, in turn, I would kill him. But when it came right down to it, I couldn't pull the trigger, because I realised that I didn't want revenge, that I had never wanted revenge. What I needed was justice. I wonder what Deeks needs and if he is ever going to achieve that inner feeling of acceptance I achieved the day I let the man who murdered my father live.

There is no way I am leaving things like this, so I go after him. "I'm worried about you Deeks. I'm worried that I'm pushing you too hard."

The truth is that I'm scared that this is pushing him away from me. I'm worried Deeks is becoming obsessed with playing absolutely perfectly, of achieving the impossible. Most of all, I'm frightened I'm losing him, even though I never had him – not really. This was supposed to bring us together, only it's pulling us apart. He's never seemed more distant, more unreachable. A shiver runs down my spine as I wonder if I know him any more. Over the past few days he's been moving further and further away from me , like a boat that has slipped its mooring and is drifting inexorably out to the wide openness of the untamed ocean.

Deeks shakes his head, with a faraway look in his eyes, one I've become only too familiar with recently, as if his thoughts are somewhere else entirely and reality is an unpleasant intrusion. "It's not you, Kensi – it's me. And it'll be worth it. I promise you."

If that is meant to be reassuring, it fails spectacularly. Back in Mia's apartment I thought we were getting somewhere, that finally we might be able to say all these things that lie between us, mutely accusing us in the way that only lost opportunities can. But now my great plan has fallen crashing down, walling Deeks in, preventing me from getting close to him. Deeks has never seemed more remote or more distant. It's as if he has closed himself off to me and to everyone else. I thought that music might be the bridge across our differences, the way in which we could finally allow our minds to meet: I was wrong. I can't reach him now, no matter how hard I try and I'm conscious of this empty feeling, as if I am completely hollow inside.

* * *

The following evening, I go out to a club and I dance like a dervish. I put all my energies into dancing, trying to forget Deeks as I allow the music to enter my body and consume my mind. Soon I am freeing myself up to the beat as the music sinks deep into my pores and I surrender myself completely to its intoxicating lure, still trying to forget all about Deeks.

Music is primal: it stirs up these ancient pulses. Music is seductive and hypnotic, and dancing takes these irresistible elements and then translates them into action so that the music and the dance it creates become inextricably linked. There are guys practically queuing up to dance with me, but the one man I really want to dance with is nowhere in sight. That's because Deeks is probably back at his apartment, just him and his violin. Why does he want to do that, when he could be right here with me? We could be dancing so close, our hips touching, our arms around each other, and here I am, flirting half-heartedly with a complete stranger I've got no interest in at all. Talk about a bad romance that never even got started. With that realisation, the club loses all its appeal for me. I'm wasting my time, because there is nothing for me here. There's somewhere else I want to be, somewhere I need to be, if I am honest and someone I desperately want to see.

So I drive through the inky black darkness of the night, the roads dotted only with the harsh beam of street lights until I arrive outside Deeks' apartment block. He lives close to the ocean, and the smell of ozone is everywhere, that sharp, fresh scent that is a combination of the sea and the wind and which I always associate with my partner. Getting out of the car, I look up and see Deeks standing at the window, back-lit by a lamp, so that he is perfectly silhouetted. He is playing the violin, just like I have imagined him doing so many times. There is something about the way he is standing and his complete and utter absorption in what he is playing that lets me understand I cannot intrude on this intensely private moment. I might need to see Deeks, but he needs to be alone with his music. And that is the precisely the dichotomy I have been fighting against for the past week: his needs and my desires. Oh well, the waiting is nearly over now. There are only a few more hours to go, so I can safely drive away leave him in solitude, no matter how much it hurts to do so. I just hope I'm not making the biggest mistake of my life.

* * *

It is now officially the end of the seven days grace I gave Deeks. Seven days that have become increasingly hellish for me to live through. By now, Sam has noticed a difference in Deeks too. And because he doesn't know anything about our little wager, he's got no compunction about saying something. "You're overdue for an appointment at the canine beautician."

Deeks looks up and blinks in surprise. That's when I know he's definitely not getting enough sleep, because normally he'd be right in there with a quick riposte. "What?" He sounds confused and I feel this pang of remorse: what am I doing to him? Did he get any sleep at all last night, or did he just stay up playing that damned fiddle until he came into work?

"You need to find those clippers before you start looking like Bigfoot." Sam leans over and runs his hand down Deeks' cheek, where the stubble is much longer than normal. "It'll soon be long enough to plait."

"Enough with the inappropriate touching." Deeks jerks away from his touch.

"And while you're at it, make sure you get yourself something decent to eat at lunchtime. You look like you haven't eaten for a week." Callen has now joined in the conversation. He's right. I noticed this morning that Deeks has had to use a tighter hole in his belt.

"What is this- get at Deeks week? I'm just naturally lean. Like a thoroughbred racehorse."

Sam just snorts in amusement, but doesn't say anything more. That's when I know he's worried. Under normal circumstances he would never pass up such a golden opportunity to take another dig at Deeks. However, I've got a pretty good idea he is just biding his time and that I'm lined up in his sights. Sure enough, later that afternoon, he and Callen contrive an opportunity to call me up to Ops.

"What's up with Deeks?" Callen is standing there, hands on hips and exuding authority.

"Nothing's up with Deeks." This is nothing to do with them, after all. It's strictly between me and Deeks and nobody else.

"Kensi." That's all Sam needs to say: just one single word. You really need to hear the tone of voice he says it in though, in order to get the full impact, and to see the look on his face. He's officially worried and he's not bothering to hide it.

"Seriously. There's nothing wrong with Deeks. He's just been busy at nights, that's all."

"Busy? As in he's got a new girlfriend?"

"It's nothing like that."

Although one week ago, I wouldn't have ruled out that possibility. I had this misguided notion that all that was going to happen was that tonight Deeks would appear outside my apartment, serenade me with some corny song and that, as they say, would be that. Kismet. Fate. Whatever. How wrong can one woman be?

Callen looks sceptical. "The man's not sleeping, he's hardly eating. It's not nothing. It's either love or Deeks is coming down with something."

"Just give him some space, will you?"

"You know about this, don't you?" Sam walks over and studies me carefully. "Kensi?"

"I know about it, okay? Just leave it, will you?" I can hear the pleading tone in my voice. He's going to ruin everything, I just know he is. "Please, Sam? It's important."

"No way." Callen is adamant. "We're not leaving it. This has gone on long enough. Either you tell us what is going on, or we're going to get hold of Deeks and ask him."

"We'll make him talk if we have to. Through brute force, if that's what it takes."

I have no doubt that Sam will sit on Deeks to get his answers, if that's what he deems necessary. And then my cell goes off, just in the nick of time. It's a text, but there's no message, just a photo attachment. And when I open that up, I see this photo of a violin, lying on Deeks desk. And that's when I realise he is going to do this right now, right here-in front of everybody. For some peculiar reason that makes my stomach turn over and it puts a huge smile on my face, both at exactly the same time. I don't know whether to feel happy or scared.

"You're too late. Both of you." I'm sprinting out of Ops as I say that, not caring if they think I'm completely mad. I probably am mad, because I've got this crazy notion that Deeks is going to do something so utterly outrageous, I can't let myself believe in that possibility.

I reach the balcony just in time to look down and see that Deeks is standing right in the middle of the bullpen, violin in hand and I lean over, not daring to believe that he is actually going to do this, right here in the Mission, in front of everyone. This can't be happening – can it? This sort of thing only happen in movies, not in real life. Only I'm up here, and Deeks is down there, and everyone is looking at us, their heads turning back and forwards between us, like they're at a tennis match or something. It would be hilarious, if only it wasn't so serious. Gradually, people stop talking – but they don't stop looking.

I can't ever recall seeing him stand quite so upright before. Everything about Deeks seems subtly different somehow, like I'm watching his reflection in a mirror or something. At some point he's managed to sneak out and change into a white shirt and run the clippers over his stubble. I think he might even have brushed his hair. For some reason, that gets to me more than anything else. Deeks is making this huge, grand gesture – and he's doing it all for me.

"Deeks." It's barely even a whisper, but he hears me.

"Kensi. This is for you." He salutes me with the bow, and then tucks the violin under his chin and begins to play, eyes sliding half-shut as the music starts to form all around him, soaring up towards me and enveloping me in this shower of beauty. I've never felt so special or so privileged or quite so loved before and all my previous doubts and worries just dissolve away, like the morning dew as the sun breaks through the clouds and bathes the world in the freshness of a new day.

A hush falls over the Mission as everyone stops what they are doing, so that all you can hear is Deeks making his violin singing its plaintive song. I know the music instantly, but I've never heard it played quite like this, or with quite so much passion. All I can think is that this is the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me and for the first time I realise the true meaning of the phrase 'playing from the heart', because that is exactly what Deeks is doing, and what's more, he's doing it for me.

"Is that Deeks playing?" Sam appears at my side and he sounds completely taken aback

"That's Deeks."

"He's good." Callen joins us and leans over the railings too.

He's more than good. Deeks can really play the violin and it is like an extension of his body, an integral part of his being. He makes it looks so effortless and that is when I know exactly how good he is, to make this complex piece sound so easy. The violin positively sings and, as he plays I start easing my way along the balcony, walking slowly as the music pulls me forward, my feet moving of their own volition as though I am mesmerised, drawing me closer. There is nowhere else I want to be, other than at the side of this man who can create such unbelievably beautiful music, pulling it out of thin air and investing it with such meaning. Today Deeks has thrown all semblance of pretence and caution to the four winds and by doing to he has revealed to me exactly where my future lies.

The afternoon sun coming in through the second floor windows falls down onto the main floor of the Mission as I go slowly down the stairs and it illuminates Deeks as surely as any spotlight, turning his hair into molten gold, creating the effect of a halo. I can't take my eyes off Deeks. If I ever had any serious doubts that he was the man for me, then this is the moment when they disappear, as the music acts like the incoming tide washing a beach clean.

The music is swirling around the Mission, reverberating in the arched spaces as my partner pours all his feelings into the music. He plays with his eyes half shut, and that fascinates me. It's hard to believe that this man making this incredible music is Deeks – my Deeks. The power and the beauty he can create overwhelm me. I can feel all his sadness flowing out through the music, but I can also feel the joy and healing his playing is creating. I watch in awe as the bow arcs so gracefully through the air, at the way his fingers are dancing across the strings with such agility and incredibly accuracy and at the way his whole body moves in time to the music he is conjuring up out of thin air. But, most of all, I am captivated by the man who is revealing himself to me so wholeheartedly, with such transparent emotion.

At the end, when the music finally moves to a close, Deeks stands perfectly still for a brief moment, as if he is still half-captivated by the sounds he wove into such an intricate pattern, before finally lowering the violin and letting it hang down at his side. For just a few minutes he turned an ordinary afternoon into something completely magical and captivated us all completely, capturing everyone's attention and holding us in thrall to him. But the spell is over now, and reality returns as first one person begins clapping, and then another and another until the applause is thunderous, filling the whole building with acclaim. People are cheering and whistling and Deeks looks quite stunned at the reaction. In that instant, I realise that by playing for me he has finally accomplished what he needed and allowed his talent to emerge from dormancy to finally be recognised and appreciated.

"Mr Deeks?" Hetty raises her voice above the hubbub "You are a sneaky little bugger, but you play like an angel."

Deeks gives her a bemused grin and then he looks along the balcony, searching for me. The look of confusion and panic on his face when he fails to find me standing there is almost comical. Almost.

"Looking for me?" I tap him on the shoulder, because I am right here at his side, for how could I stay up there on the balcony a moment longer? Hearing Deeks play made me realise exactly where I wanted to be and, more importantly, exactly who I wanted to be with. "That was quite some show you put on. Maestro."

A flush brightens his cheeks. "You liked it?" He looks like a little boy, seeking my approval, but at the same time the look of triumph and irrepressible joy in his eyes is unmistakable. "Really?"

"It was incredible." I reach up and brush my hand across my eyes, dashing away the tears.

"You're crying?" Deeks sounds completely taken aback.

"I'm crying because it was so beautiful. And because you did that for me. In front of everyone."

The music said everything I could ever want him to say, and more. I just wish there was some way I could find the words to repay the compliment and to let Deeks know how he means to me.

"Don't cry. I wanted it to be perfect – for you. Please don't cry." He still looks anxious and unsure.

"It was perfect," I assure him. "That was absolutely the most wonderful, incredibly romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. And I'm crying because I'm so happy."

Comprehension breaks through the mists of my confusion with a blinding clarity: Deeks has managed to show me that sometimes we don't need any words. Surely the least I can do is to repay the compliment? So I do what I should have done months ago: I reach up and my hand on the nape of Deeks' neck and I pull him down into a kiss. I'm vaguely conscious that once again there is a crescendo of applause as our lips finally meet and somehow that seems exactly right, because this is a fabulous kiss and I don't want it to ever end as I sink into his embrace.

"I told you I needed to practice," Deeks says in an undertone, when we finally break apart.

"Oh no you don't." My head is still spinning and my heart is beating so fast that it feels like I've just run a marathon. "That kiss was pretty much amazing."

"I was talking about the violin." He's running one hand through my hair, and with the other he's pulling me closer to him and there's a slightly stunned look of disbelief in his eyes, like he can't quite comprehend this is all really happening. I know exactly how he feels, because by all the rules of logic and common-sense, not to mention workplace decorum, this really should not be happening – not here, and not now. Only it is. Perhaps it was always meant to be this way?

"I know you were. But maybe we really do need to practice kissing? Just to make sure that wasn't a fluke?"

"I like the way you think."

And I like the way he kisses. In fact, I like pretty much everything about him, especially now that Deeks' hand is cupping the back of my head and I've got both of my arms around his neck as we kiss, and we kiss and we kiss. Time seems to stand still as we kiss like the whole world is about to end and, once again, it is a great kiss. If possible, it's even better than the first kiss. Somewhere, in the midst of that mind-swirling, down-right incredible kiss, I can hear Hetty's voice again.

"At last. It's about bloody time."

I think that means she approves, which is nice. Not that I'd care if she didn't, because now I've got Deeks, I'm never going to let him go again.

* * *

**Coda**

Much later on, I wonder if Hetty knows that the best day's work she ever did in her whole life was to bring Deeks into NCIS? I rather suspect she does. And I have this feeling that things are just going to keep on getting better, as we gather up our hearts and go a thousand kisses deep. I look at the beloved man lying beside me and wonder if it's too soon for us to make some more beautiful music together. He looks up at me and smiles that lazy, seductive smile that entranced me right from the very start and I know that Deeks can dance me to the end of love and back again by morning.

**THE END**


End file.
